


A Fragment of Destiny

by MapleMooseMuffin



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: A story of how Keith and Shiro save each other, Fantasy AU, Fictional Racism, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Knight!Shiro, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, and Keith's ability to find Shiro no matter how far apart they're pulled, featuring the Galra as enemy raiders, may or may not end up taking Witcher inspiration, or - Freeform, paladin!shiro, some violence/battle, this fic spans many years, this was going to be a 2019 big bang piece but I got busy, tiefling!keith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25581493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleMooseMuffin/pseuds/MapleMooseMuffin
Summary: “Aren’t any knightly orders out here looking to take in a monster with enemy blood.” He sneers, but Shiro catches the note of pride to his voice when he adds, “Some of us have to be self-taught.”“You held your own well against those boys. I almost didn’t step in.”“I could've taken them”“Maybe so. It’d have hurt more, though.”“I’m not afraid.”Of Shiro, or of taking hits to win, Shiro wonders.The boy nods to the sword. “You were pretty good even without that.”“A knight’s got to be prepared for anything he might face."The boy snorts. “You could have finished it a lot faster if you just drew your blade.”Shiro frowns. “They were unarmed. That’s not what my blade is for.”The tiefling tosses his head. “Chivalry like that’ll just get you killed.” He says it with an air that says he thinks Shiro’s the type to willingly sacrifice his life before his honor. Like he’s seen that kind before.Shiro isn’t the sort of knight to live only by a code of manners, though. He has a duty and a mission, an end goal.“If my life were in danger, I’d have drawn the blade.”Shiro and Keith meet in the woods.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	A Fragment of Destiny

**Author's Note:**

> A year ago now, I was paired with Nessie [(@nessietime)](https://twitter.com/nessietime) for the 2019 Sheith Big Bang. Unfortunately life got hectic and I ended up having to drop out of the event. But the plot I pulled together from Nessie's amazing dnd inspired concept never left me, and I've had 5k of this story sitting in my folders for months, waiting for the day I could come back to it. 
> 
> 2020 certainly hasn't been conducive to anything, but somehow I've managed to make time to bring this story to life. 
> 
> Please be sure to check out Nessie's [stunning art pieces](https://twitter.com/nessietime/status/1215136736998776833) and the Big Bang piece that did come out of them - [Faith, Hope, Love and Luck by Chiisanafukuro (makuro)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22167916).
> 
> This chapter is based around Nessie's first pieces, the first meeting between young Shiro and Keith.
> 
> As a side note, in this fic Shiro and Keith are about 3 years apart in age.
> 
> Enjoy!~

The forest is bright and radiant in the afternoon sunlight, and though Shiro’s been beneath thousands of trees he can’t help but take notice of the way this forest feels so alive as he follows behind his father. They pick their way off the beaten path, leaving the road to carefully weave around trunks and past bushes nearly as tall as Shiro and twice as wide as the two of them together. It’s early summer, but the heat hasn’t set in this far north just yet. A soft, spring like wind makes music from the rustling of young leaves above their heads, plays with the loose bangs brushing Shiro’s eyes.

After a few minutes of walking away from the road, his father stops and draws a dagger. The nearest tree gets marked with a crooked G – a rudimentary practice the knights use to find their way in unfamiliar woods.

“You’ll wait here while I check ahead,” he says.

Shiro nods, though he’d much rather do the first inspection of the nearby village with his father, instead of hiding out in the forest until he’s told it’s safe to come out. But they’ve had that argument before. Apparently even after a few years of battle experience, Shiro is still more squire than knight.

His father watches him close, perhaps surprised by the easy agreement. That’s fair – Shiro is hardly one to take orders quietly when he doesn’t agree. But by now he’s resigned himself to the fact that pressing this issue will only prolong his time spent twiddling his thumbs in the woods. Give him a few more battles to convince his father yet again of his worth and then he’ll be back to fighting.

After a long beat without protest, his father nods.

“Good boy. I should return within the hour.”

He settles a hand on Shiro’s shoulder and ducks his head to look him directly in the eyes. They match, both steely grey and coldly serious when they want to be. His father draws his lips into a tight, grim line and speaks with a quiet gravity Shiro will no doubt inherit one day as well.

“If I’m not back by then, seek out Commander Iverson. Lord Garrison’s men ought to be roughly a day’s travel behind us – go back the way we came and let them know the town is not safe.”

This is familiar, too – with the Galra invaders rampaging all about the countryside they have to be cautious, as any village could be host to their enemies. But now his father speaks with such a weight that Shiro wonders if there’s something he isn’t telling him.

“I will,” he swears, but he won’t. If his father ever were to miss a rendezvous, Shiro would charge headfirst into battle to find him. It’s just his nature. They say his mother was the same.

“Good boy, Takashi.” He gives Shiro’s shoulder a squeeze through his thin summer shirt, eyes heavy with love and meaning. Then, just as soon as the gravity came, it’s gone. He pulls back and turns toward the road beyond the trees. “Stay here. I’ll be back soon.”

Shiro watches him go, dagger held low to nick each trunk he passes where it won’t be noticed by someone who isn’t aware of the trail. Sometimes, when Shiro’s bored, he fantasizes about exploring the forests his father leaves him in, marking the trees with his own blade as he goes and leading his father on a winding chase as payback for treating him like a child. It would be petty, of course, and earn him an endless lecture once his father found him again, but the thought is entertaining enough.

The life of a knight isn’t all battlefields and sword practice. Sometimes you have to make your own fun.

Today, leaning against his G-marked tree and staring off into the branches overhead, Shiro deigns to play word games with himself instead. It’s a useful way to pass the time while marching, taught to him by another knight’s son when they were paired during a march south. It starts with a theme – Shiro chooses weapons this time – and the first letter of the alphabet, then carries on through every letter, taking turns across players until you reach the end or you fail to think of something. _Axe_ , _bow_ , _club_ , and _dagger_ come easy enough, but the second half of the alphabet will give him trouble, he’s sure.

He’s just reached _spear_ when the sound of nearby voices carries over on the wind.

“He went this way, I saw him!”

“That devil thinks he can hide in the shadows.”

“I’ll grab him by the braid, then you two pin him down.”

“I see him!”

Shiro drops a hand to his sword, widening his stance. The voices are rushed and young, somewhere around his age he’d guess, but that doesn’t mean anything. Afterall, he’s experienced battle himself, and the Galra aren’t so noble as to be above using child soldiers.

He slows his breathing as his father taught him, keeping calm even as his senses sharpen. It isn’t hard to hear the boys moving through the woods. They clatter over fallen leaves and rustle every bush as they draw nearer, shouting out to one another.

One calls, “Where’d he go?” and the group fans out, rattling every plant in a sixty foot radius as they pursue their illusive quarry.

It’s not him they’re after, but that doesn’t mean they’ll be forgiving if they find him. And whomever it is they’re chasing could be his own threat. Shiro keeps his eyes on the shadows around him, on the lookout for movement or sign of the mentioned braid.

Above them, in a tree some fifteen feet ahead, there’s a rustling clatter as something heavy slips on a branch.

“The bastard’s up there!”

“Grab the trunk, we’ll shake him out!”

Shiro watches, wary, poised to jump in if needed but taking a moment to assess the situation. There’s a bush between him and the crowd of boys – there are four voices he’s counted so far, each marked by youth much like his own. He can use that for cover, but it also obscures his vision from whatever’s going on. Glancing up, the tree is thin and young, but overcompensating with its foliage and Shiro can’t make out the shape of any man through the branches.

The boys begins to shake the tree vigorously, and something above lets out a snarl so sharp Shiro can only imagine the heavy jaws of the cougar he and Matt once fought away from their camp. It was a terrifying, ruthless thing, eyes alight with hatred and fear that only made it stronger. Afterwards, their fathers explained to them the dangers of a cornered animal; how the drive to live makes a panicked creature more violent and unpredictable.

Above, the creature loses its grip. There’s the scrape of claws, the lash of a tail, and then a heavy crack as a thick bow snaps and down tumbles the boys’ prize.

Shiro only sees him for a moment, but in that instance he realizes it’s just a kid.

He’s moving before he has time to think, darting over to the thick bush and slipping around the side of it. He keeps his pace careful, checking for an ambush as he’s been conditioned by now even though the boys seem far more focused on tormenting the child they’ve rattled out of the tree.

“Don’t let him get away!”

“Did you see him use his tail! It’s disgusting!”

“Watch out for his fangs!”

“It’s like a beaten dog. Why don’t you just curl your tail between your legs like a good little whelp!”

Shiro rounds the bush and scans the group for weapons, releasing his grip on his sword when he sees none. That’s a relief – he’d rather not risk cutting down a gaggle of schoolboys even if it is to defend an innocent kid. His eyes dart then to the boy caught in the middle of circle. What he sees gives him pause.

The boy is scrawny, sharp around the edges like splintered wood, with mauve skin and a lashing, pointed tail. The word _tiefling_ comes to Shiro, though he’s never met one in person before. They’re native to Daibazal, he heard.

This scrappy boy with narrowed eyes and gnashing fangs looks fierce, but hardly like a Galra warrior.

“Come on, wretched beast, bow down before your masters!” The loudest boy, the ringleader of this dreadful crew. His bold words cut through Shiro’s thoughts and snap his mind back to the present as he motions to the boys on either side of the tiefling.

They dart toward him, and Shiro rushes up to intervene, but the tiefling boy is faster. His tail is thick, less of a whip and more a club, and he pounds it against the backs of their knees with an echoing _thwack_. They each crumple, gasping, and he darts to the side with a grace entirely opposite to such a brutish attack, drawing one of the two remaining boys away from their leader. It’s a clever tactic – the boy dives after him and the tiefling has room to sidestep him without coming in reach of the leader. At the side of the boy he hooks an arm around his ribs and shoves, trying to use the older boy’s strength against him to topple him over his friends.

He doesn’t account for the rock that’s thrown his way by a boy on the ground.

It’s large, the size of a walnut, and pegs the tiefling boy right in one of his stunted horns. The sound is enough to make Shiro wince. The tiefling snarls, head whipping toward the rock thrower, who’s scrambled up onto his feet by now. Shiro steps toward him just as the tiefling boy is kneed in the stomach by the boy he’d been trying to throw down.

“That’s enough,” Shiro barks out, mustering up his best impression of his father giving orders on the field. He has the advantage of being taller, broader, and older than these boys, as well as having caught them by surprise. The lot of them jump and step back from him, eyes wide and pulses clear in their throats.

Even still, Shiro sees the moment the leader decides four against one will be in his favor. His eyes narrow and he leans forward, taking back the ground he’d lost as he tries to puff up at Shiro. “You gonna defend this freak? What’s it matter to you, stranger?”

He asks his question like it’s a threat, but from the corner of his eye Shiro can see the rest of the boys hesitating.

“You think beating up some little kid makes you strong?” he lifts his chin at the leader. The others shift and mumble their guilt, and Shiro makes sure to fix them each with a harsh look. “You’re lucky it’s only me out here.”

They catch his meaning. Two of the three lackeys scamper back away from the tiefling boy still hunched on the ground – they must have gotten him good, and yet he still looks eager to fight even as he curls his arms around his stomach and hisses through his teeth.

The third hooligan darts forward in a desperate attempt to fight off the stranger that’s startled him. Shiro hears his clumsy dive easily and leans back into it, checking the boy with his shoulder and knocking him to the ground. The boy manages to snag the tie holding back Shiro’s hair as he goes, and Shiro grunts as his head is jerked downward.

It’s all the opening the leader boy needs to make up his mind and attack.

Shiro’s only warning is the grunted, “Behind!” from the tiefling. It’s just enough for him to glance back, throw an arm up, and just barely block the punch thrown his way.

He shoves his weight at the leader to knock him back and straightens up, free hand darting to pull his hair from his face. The boy staggers and bares his teeth, then rushes in for another punch. His movements are obvious to Shiro though, having trained for far worse than a boyish brawl in the woods. He grabs the boy’s hand, pushes back to avoid the second punch, and spins him around, bending his arm against his back just enough to hurt.

Two of the boys scamper off the way they came. The third whimpers to his leader that this fight isn’t worth it and edges back away from Shiro, hair tie still absently clutched between his fingers.

“Surrender and you can go,” Shiro says. The boy in his grasp grunts and squirms, but Shiro’s hold is fast. He waits a moment for the reply, then presses his arm a little further when the boy holds his tongue.

That’s all it takes. These village boys are hardly soldiers.

“Fine, fine, mercy! Let me go!”

“You’ll go home and leave this boy be,” Shiro adds. He hears a growl of protest from the tiefling on the ground, but the remaining boy nods eagerly and looks to his friend, still in Shiro’s hold.

“What’s it matter to you?” the leader asks again. “He’s some ‘Zal rat!”

Shiro presses harder at the slur, and the boy gasps out in pain.

“He’s just a boy,” he says, voice hard. “You’ll leave him be.”

“Fine, fine, please!”

He hardly sounds repentant, but he _does_ sound frightened, and sometimes that’s enough. Shiro releases his hold. The boys dart out of the clearing in seconds.

Behind him he hears the shift of leaves as the tiefling gets his tail under himself. Shiro turns to offer him a hand.

“You alright?”

“I didn’t need your help,” the tiefling spits.

“It was four to one.”

“And I had it.”

He’s glaring at Shiro’s hand like Shiro was one of the bullies chasing after him. It’s not often that someone sprawled prone on the ground can manage to seem intimidating, but the fire in this strange boy’s eyes almost makes Shiro wonder if he might attack him as well.

“Well, they came after me, too,” he offers.

“Only because you stepped in. What are you doing, lurking around in the woods? What do you want out of this?”

Shiro cocks his head. “You make it sound as though I were waiting for someone to come along so I could jump in.”

“You’re a mercenary.” Shiro looks down at his sword, still sheathed at the hip, and can’t help but be impressed at how quickly this boy sized him up. Even if he’s a bit off. “All opportunists.”

The surety in his tone makes Shiro wonder if he hasn’t had dealings with those kind before.

“I’m a knight, actually,” Shiro tells him. Technically he’s still a squire, but that’s a moot point. He shifts his sheath so the boy can see its insignia. “Of House Garrison.”

“Never heard of ‘em,” the boy grunts. He makes the simple fact sound like an insult. Shiro takes a deep breath and steels himself, refusing to let the other goad him into a fight on account of his wounded pride.

“How about you, then,” he asks instead and waves the hand he still holds outstretched to the tiefling. The boy scowls at him, a question clear in the arc of his brow even as he bares his fangs. (And they are fangs; thick pointed bones that seem almost too big next to the rest of his teeth, like he’s still growing into them. It oddly strikes Shiro as cute despite the boy’s clear efforts to be menacing.)

“What about me?” he grunts when arcing a brow doesn’t give him any answers. Shiro watches his strange violet eyes dart from the offered hand and back to Shiro’s face, the scowl only growing more intense with each passing beat. The bright golden color of his sclera make such a sharp contrast to his soft purple skin.

“Do you have a name? An affiliation?” And maybe Shiro means for it to be a challenge because he feels the warmth of pride in his stomach when the tiefling tilts up his chin, his own challenge burning in those eyes. The scowl shifts into something fiery and sharp. Defiance. He wears it well.

“Aren’t any knightly orders out here looking to take in a monster with enemy blood.” He sneers, but Shiro catches the note of pride to his voice when he adds, “Some of us have to be self-taught.”

“You held your own well against those boys. I almost didn’t step in,” he says.

“I could have taken them if you hadn’t.”

“Maybe so. It’d have hurt more, though.”

“I’m not afraid.”

Of Shiro, or of taking hits to win, Shiro wonders.

The boy nods to the sword. “You were pretty good even without that.” He says it like he was surprised, though it also sounds like mockery.

“A knight’s got to be prepared for anything he might face,” Shiro says.

The boy snorts. “You could have finished it off a lot faster if you just drew your blade.”

Shiro frowns. “They were unarmed. I wasn’t trying to threaten their _lives_ , that’s not what my blade is for.”

The tiefling tosses his head, sending his long braid flicking over his shoulder. It’s silky and tight, coiling like beautiful rope against the ground and yet seeming soft, softer than anything Shiro’s seen before.

“Chivalry like that’ll just get you killed,” the boy’s words cut through Shiro’s distracted thought. He says it with an air that says he thinks Shiro’s the type to willingly sacrifice his life before his honor. Like he’s seen that kind before.

Shiro isn’t the sort of knight to live only by a code of manners, though. He has a duty and a mission, an end goal.

“If my life were in danger, I’d have drawn the blade.”

The boy cocks a brow and says nothing.

They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment, sizing one another up. The boy still refuses to take his hand, and so Shiro keeps it held out in stubborn offering. With his other hand he tugs loose hair out of his face. The boy ignores the strip of silk bangs dipping between his own eyes, hanging soft between his horns.

They aren’t going to get anywhere like this. But Shiro’s never been one to give up, and he’s famous among the knights for his stubbornness. So, he tries a different tactic to warm the boy up to him.

“Why were they chasing you?”

The tiefling gives him a flat look. “Because I’m a monster.” That’s the second time he’s used that word and it comes without irony. Like he’s accepted it as truth.

“You’re not a monster,” Shiro says with a shake of the head.

He gets a flat look for it. “Are you blind, or stupid?”

“Neither.”

The boy makes a frustrated face and gestures up to his horns, then to the twin stripes on either side of his face. They’re sharp shapes that almost touch his eyes. It reminds Shiro of the warrior paint he and Matt read about in one of Captain Holt’s worldly books. The Alteans wear them as signs of strength and to connect with their ancestors. Who knows what they might mean, if anything, in Daibazal.

“The way you look doesn’t make you a monster. It’s about how you act.” Shiro gestures into the woods, the way the boys ran off after he’d scared them away. “The only monsters I saw today were those youths chasing you.”

Shiro jumps at the rumbling sound of a growl, rolling low and deep in the other boy’s chest. He’s never heard a person make that sort of noise. His heart stutters in fear despite himself.

“You don’t get it,” the boy speaks through that sound. It makes his voice deeper, rumbling out of his throat in a dark, menacing tone. “I’m a _tiefling_. That means I have blood from Daibazal. You know, like the Galra? The marauders tearing up the countryside?”

It takes Shiro a moment to steel himself against the thread of fear that inhuman growl dripped into his veins. He swallows and schools his face into something neutral, just as he was taught to do on the battlefield. A slow breath in, a slow breath out. Focus on the words, not the rolling threat underneath them.

Pushing past that first burst of fear, he realizes the boy is trying to push him away. He’s like an injured cat, curled with its back against the wall and hissing and spitting with all its might to keep the world away. Threatening him just to get Shiro to back down and leave him be.

Unlucky for him, Shiro’s not in the habit of backing down just because he’s been threatened.

“Are you Galra?” he challenges.

The boy tips his chin, eyes burning. “I’m not.”

“Then you’re not a monster. Daibazal is an entire country, there are more than Galra there.”

The boy stares at him, mouth going slack, brows furrowed. Shiro wonders if he’s going to call him an idiot again, pull out some other reason why he thinks he deserves to be treated like a coyote picking off farm hens instead of a person. It’s clear from the way he fought that this wasn’t the first time he’d been cornered by violent fools. Shiro has trouble believing he’s the first person to tell this boy he’s as worthy of life as any human being.

But the boy slowly closes his mouth and shifts his gaze away from Shiro toward a nearby stone. It’s the first time he’s broken his stare. Without that piercing glare, he seems much softer, the twisted scowl more of a bitter frown. Like this he looks younger. Thirteen, if Shiro had to guess.

“You didn’t give me your name,” Shiro reminds him, bouncing his outstretched hand once more in offering. The boy looks at it, then up to his face.

“I don’t give mine to people who won’t give theirs first.”

Shiro blinks, then grins. It’s more headway than he’s made thus far, after all. “Alright then. I’m Shiro.”

There’s a long pause as the boy just sits and stares. Shiro can tell he’s thinking something over, calculating or debating. Probably trying to decide if he can trust Shiro, or if he wants to associate with him.

Eventually, though, it comes.

“Keith.” The word glides off his tongue with the barest hint of an accent Shiro can’t place.

“Nice to meet you, Keith.”

The sound of leaves crunching under boots makes Keith scramble up, ignoring Shiro’s hand and pushing himself up into a fighter’s crouch with his tail. Shiro whirls around, hand dropping to the hilt of his sword on instinct, but it’s only one set of footsteps and even as they approach he can tell they’re headed a bit aways from this clearing. It sounds more like they’re heading toward the tree where his father left him.

Oh.

“It’s okay,” he says quickly to Keith. He steps around the bush and makes his way back to the meeting place, hurrying so as not to worry his father. After a beat he can hear Keith’s steps behind him, slower and more cautious.

Shiro reaches the tree a moment after his father. “I’m here. Sorry,” he calls out as he comes close.

His father turns to face him, and Shiro sees the flicker of fear and then relief before it’s smothered under irritation. He braces himself for the lecture he’s about to get. But then Keith rustles a few leaves behind him, and Shiro’s father steps forward, tensing for a fight.

“No, no, it’s okay.” Shiro reaches out and grabs his arm. “I found someone – he was being chased by some kids from the village. He’s not Galra.”

His father looks to Shiro, then back to the forest. Keith isn’t visible at this angle, hiding behind some brush and probably debating whether he should fight or run. Shiro pats his father’s arm and takes a few steps back toward the clearing.

“We won’t hurt you,” he says into the open air.

There’s a long pause. The leaves above rattle with a soft breeze, sending a few skittering leaves and petals drifting down. A few birds chitter, and Shiro waits with a friendly smile, hoping he’s earned enough of the tiefling’s trust to bring him out.

There’s a little flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. Keith’s sharp edged tail flicking underneath the bush. Shiro turns slowly toward it and says again, “It’s okay. You can come out.”

He glances back at his father, who’s settled back into a more relaxed pose. He’s staring curiously past Shiro’s shoulder, and Shiro sees the moment Keith steps out into the open by the flicker of surprise in his father’s eyes.

He turns back and sees Keith creeping out of his hiding place, holding himself low. Ready to pounce if needed, Shiro thinks.

“Keith, this is my dad.” Shiro gestures from one to the other. “Dad, Keith. We’re traveling through – that’s why I’m out here.”

Shiro’s father nods, expression relaxed once again. There’s no hint of fear or surprise anymore at Keith’s race, and when Shiro looks back to Keith he can tell the tiefling isn’t sure what to make of that.

“We can take you home, if you want,” Shiro offers. To be honest, he wants more time to pick Keith’s brain. Learn about his fighting technique and if there’s more to it than just what he showed in the clearing.

But Keith shuffles his weight, uneasy, and frowns. His eyes stay on Shiro’s father as he answers. “I don’t have one.”

“A—You don’t have a home?”

Keith frowns and doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to, really. The silence speaks for itself. It also opens a new floodgate of questions in Shiro, and before he has time to think about it he turns back to his father.

“He could stay with us, right?”

His father frowns, looking a bit put out. “You’ve just met this young man, Takashi.” But it’s not an outright refusal. That’s enough to spur Shiro onward.

“He’s a great fighter. You should have seen it – he held his own against four people – barely even needed me.”

“I _didn’t_ need you,” Keith bites. It makes Shiro grin.

“See? There’s a lot I could learn from him. And,” he glances back at Keith, who’s looking at him with that bewildered scowl again, “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a hot meal and a warm bed, right?”

It might be bribery, but Shiro will do what he has to to buy more time with this boy. There’s just something about him that’s drawn Shiro in. It feels like they were meant to meet, and if Shiro walks away now he’ll be throwing away a fragment of destiny.

Keith glowers and grumbles something about handouts, but eventually he caves in. “Fine. I know better than to turn away free food.”

“Yes!” Shiro turns back to his father, grinning in victory.

The man sighs and gives Shiro a tiny smile. “Very well. Come along, then. I’ve already found us a tavern to stay the night. It should be dinnertime by the time we’ve settled in.”

Keith stays quiet on the walk back, leaving Shiro to fill the air between them with chatter. He does seem attentive, however, especially when Shiro tells him about his training. The tiefling’s eyes stay fixed on his, burning past the cool calm of Keith’s otherwise neutral expression and giving away his interest. It’s funny to Shiro – he’d been so quick to scoff at the mention of knights, and yet he seems enthralled with everything Shiro has to say about them.

The tavern is nestled in the heart of the little town, allowing Shiro to take in a full view of the place as they walk. It’s fairly bustling – market stalls are busy packing up for the evening and merchants and farmers alike lead their horse carts laden with goods back out of the square. People drift from their places of work toward their homes as the workday comes to an end, and the warm smell of cooking meats starts to fill the air.

They even pass a blacksmith’s shop, closed for the evening but still smelling of heat and melting metal. Shiro eagerly points it out to his father and his new friend, wondering if maybe they’ll be able to spare the time and gold to order his own sword. The one at his hip has served him well, but it’s been passed on through the ranks of knights over the years and has certainly seen better days.

He also can’t help but notice the way people’s eyes trail after them. At first he expects it’s because they’re strangers – even a town as busy as this knows its local faces, and a pair of tattered knights are hard to miss. But every stare is dark, with harsh brows and sharp scowls that are too hostile to be simple displeasure at new comers. Keith slinks close between Shiro and his father, tail lashing back and forth like an agitated cat as he walks, holding himself low and practically hiding between them.

Shiro scowls back at the crowd and edges closer to Keith.

His father must have noticed the stares as well because he asks them to wait outside the tavern while he steps in to ask for food to be brought to their room instead of shared in the main room with the other diners. They’re quick to move up the stairs after that, closing themselves off in their room and settling on the beds to take their meal.

There are only two beds in the room. Keith settles himself in the corner near the door, keeping his back to the wall, and sits on the floor instead of joining Shiro despite his offer to share the space.

“So where are we headed next?” Shiro asks to fill the quiet. His father takes a long drink from his tankard.

Clearing his throat, he says, “We’ll be meeting with Captain Iverson in the morning, shortly before noon.”

Shiro waits, but that’s all he says. He frowns. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“We’ll discuss it further in the morning,” his father says curtly. His gaze doesn’t shift from Shiro, but Shiro still wonders if it’s because Keith is here. But then, his father hasn’t said much about their plans this whole trip – it isn’t until they hit a town that he tells Shiro where they’re going next.

Keith quietly scarfs down food, watching and listening without joining the conversation.

After dinner, Shiro’s father takes their plates back down to the tavern, instructing them to ready for bed while he’s gone.

“You can take whichever bed you like,” Shiro offers to Keith as he runs a comb through his hair.

Keith frowns. “There are only two.”

“Well, yes. My father didn’t know you’d be joining us when he rented the room. But we’ll only be using two at a time, anyway. Dad usually takes first watch, trading off with me halfway through the night.”

“What are you watching for?” Keith crosses his arms and leans back against the wall at the foot of one of the beds. It’s not as though he has much to do to prepare himself for sleep, Shiro supposes, since he doesn’t have any belongings with him.

Shiro stills his comb and wonders whether he ought to offer it to his new friend. Although, Keith might take offense to it, might see it as Shiro calling him unclean. He decides better of it then and sets the comb aside.

“The Galra,” he answers after a beat. Then, still facing Keith, he stoops to search his pack for spare clothes.

Keith frowns down at him, still but for the idle flick of his tail. It brushes the tattered cuffs of his pants, which droop over the edges of his boots, too big for his scrappy frame. Not that anything Shiro has to offer would be a better fit.

“You’re being hunted?” Keith asks.

Shiro finds the thicker shirt he used to hold up against the chill of spring rains a few months ago. The summer hasn’t fully set in yet here, and nights are always cooler than the day anyway. He could bear to sleep warm if it offered Keith a change of clothes.

He straightens, setting the spring shirt and a tattered pair of pants on the bed. “It’s not just us,” he says.

Keith’s eyes narrow when he starts to undo the clasps of his gambeson. For the first time Shiro notices the bridge of his nose and tops of his cheeks are a darker shade of violet than the rest of his face. He must not have realized it in the dappled light of the forest.

“Most of the countryside is having trouble,” Shiro adds once he’s finished with the final clasp. He slips out of the heavy quilted vest with a sigh. It seems pretty self-explanatory to him, but then he remembers Keith is on his own in the world. Maybe no one’s taken the time to tell him what’s going on.

“There are Galra battalions cropping up all over out here,” he explains, bending to set his armor beside the pack. When he straightens to pull off his summer shirt, Keith has turned his attention to stare pointedly up at a corner of the ceiling. The tips of his ears are darker than the rest of his skin as well.

“Lord Garrison sent us out to help with the skirmishes. Ever since the death of the king, it’s been up to knights like us to keep the peace at the edges of the kingdom. So we march and patrol the area, fight off Galra where we can.”

“So you really do just wander around in the forest and hope you’ll find someone to save.”

Shiro pauses, having just tugged his spring shirt on, and gives Keith a long look. It’s hard to parse whether that was meant to be an insult or not. Harder still to read Keith when his eyes are so fixed on the ceiling. Shiro carefully takes in his pose, the tight grip of his hands in the crooks of his elbows, the hard lines of his shoulders and sharp cut of his jaw, the close curl of his tail around one leg. He doesn’t seem aggressive, exactly. A little glowery. Mutinous. Offended, even, though Shiro can’t guess why. Other than wounded pride from the fight in the woods, perhaps.

“We look for dangers to defend against,” he answers, voice soft but firm. A quiet conviction. The creak of a floorboard under his boot as he crosses the room is what finally draws Keith’s eyes back to him.

_Oh_ , Shiro’s breath catches. _He’s angry._ _Furious, even._

The outstretched hand he offers up his summer shirt in wilts under that fiery gaze.

“So what happens after you finish off one wave of Galra? Do you slosh around cups in the local taverns, collect up tips from the peasants and spend it all on shiny metal at the blacksmith before rolling on to the next village?” He shifts his weight, like he’s trying to get farther away from Shiro even as he lashes out with his tongue. Shiro frowns, feeling the coals of irritation smolder to life between his ribs.

“No, we move on and look for more Galra. We never stay long anywhere.”

It comes out bitter, sharper than he meant to say it. Words that taste like cold steel and cut a decisive silence into the air. He stares at Keith, sure his eyes are as hard and cold as his father’s were in the woods, and Keith stares back, fiery fury against metallic ice.

Somehow, they cancel each other out.

Keith snatches up the shirt with a swing of his hand, like a cat swiping at a bothersome dog. “What’s this for?” He doesn’t break their stare.

“To sleep in. Thought you’d be hot in yours.”

Keith’s simple red sweater is just as oversized as his trousers. As though he swiped them both from the clothesline of a man three times his size three months ago. Maybe he did. He certainly didn’t come across them with the freedom of choice, judging by the hefty folds of the sleeves he keeps shoving up his arms or the tattered mess of overhanging pantlegs around his boots. The tight belt around his waist makes them billow and puff up, makes him look all the smaller for it.

“I don’t mind heat,” Keith says, quietly, though not softly. Just a smaller sharpness, adjusted to the smaller space between them. He still fingers the bottom edge of his sweater, traces a thumb over the thinner fabric of Shiro’s borrowed top.

“I don’t care if you wear it or not,” Shiro decides. It’s mostly true. “Just figured I’d offer.” He gives a little shrug, and feels the way it breaks the tension between them, frees him of their deadlock. He turns away to finish readying for bed, and feels far more tired than he did a few minutes ago.

Behind him, after a long stretch of quiet, he hears the rustle of fabric. Then the heavy slump of Keith’s sweater hitting the ground.

Shiro’s father returns and settles his things for the night as well, pulling the room’s lone chair to rest beside the door and leaning his sword nearby. They extinguish the candles down to just one small light, lock the door and the window, draw the curtains.

“I’ll wake you in a few hours,” his father says. It’s as much an order to get to bed as a plan.

Shiro nods and moves dutifully to the rightmost bed, since Keith hasn’t bothered to claim one yet. The tiefling still lingers against the wall by the other bed, yellow eyes reflecting the little flicker of light they have. It’s curious. For all his rigid horns, sharp tail, angular lines and dragon-like fangs, Shiro can’t help comparing Keith again and again to an alley cat rather than a feral lizard.

His father takes his seat and nods to the spare bed. Gestures with an open palm when Keith still doesn’t move.

Keith’s tail flickers, anxious. He continues to stare.

There’s quite a long silence. Shiro watches them, laying half under the covers and knowing he ought to be asleep. He can’t help his fascination with this strange boy, though. Tense and distrusting, flighty perhaps. But seemingly lost, too. Like crossing his arms is the only thing he can think to do with his hands. Like he doesn’t know what it’s like to have a roof and a full belly and a straw bed.

And yet he doesn’t seem scared. Uncomfortable, uncertain, untrusting. But confident in his own strength. Braced for the worst and ready to face it head on.

Shiro’s seen naïve confidence in his fellow squires before. Arrogance, really. Unearned pride in abilities one has never had to rely on. Keith wears his differently. The tilt of his chin and the fire in his eyes, the strength of his stance, say that his confidence is justified, his prowess well tested.

Shiro used to think the battlefield was the only place to breed a fighter, but looking at Keith, he wonders if maybe he was wrong.

“How about this,” Shiro’s father says after an hour or two of silence. He turns, reaching for his sword belts, and Keith immediately shifts into a fighting stance.

“I’ll give you this,” Shiro’s father says without looking back. He pushes aside his sword scabbard and instead unholsters the dagger he keeps for emergencies. It’s a simple weapon, small but sharp, rarely used, thank the gods.

He holds it out, palms up. Keith stares hard at him. Doesn’t move to take it.

Another long beat, then Shiro’s father nods.

“I’ll set it on the bed for you. You can sleep with it under the pillow, so you’ll feel safe.”

He stands very slowly, projecting his movements. Shiro quickly closes his eyes and feigns sleep as his father comes near. He hears the soft rustle of the blanket on the other bed, the quiet steps of his father moving back to sit. When he dares peek them open again, he sees the two of them staring at one another again.

Another excruciatingly drawn out silence. Then, quietly, Keith cuts it.

“Are the Galra really coming here?”

_We don’t know_ , Shiro expects his father to say. _We’re just passing through, keeping our eyes and ears open_.

“Yes,” he says instead. A quiet, firm, monosyllable. More of an answer than Shiro’s gotten out of him in weeks.

“And you’re gonna stop them.” A question given as a statement. A flick of the tail, quirk of the brow. Uncertainty presented as disbelief.

“That’s the goal.”

That’s answer enough for Keith, or maybe it’s just the last he wants to hear from Shiro’s father. He huffs, makes a sound almost like clicking his tongue, and finally pushes off from the wall.

It’s the kind of attitude that makes Shiro expect a snarky comment thrown over the shoulder, something like _Well I hope you’re as good as you claim_. But Keith doesn’t say anything. Just crosses the small space of the room, coming to stand beside the other bed.

Shiro ought to close his eyes and feign sleep, but he doesn’t. He’s too curious, too interested in whatever Keith might say or do next. Too afraid of missing something. Of loosing a chance to learn more about their new companion.

He watches Keith climb into bed, Shiro’s borrowed shirt long enough to brush over the top of his tail, which he shifts slowly this way and that as he moves, arcing it up over his back. He takes the knife in one hand, then the other, before curling up on his side and holding it close to his chest, his knees tucked up against him and his tail curled around his body. Like a cat, yet again.

Keith’s eyes shimmer yellow, reflecting the candlelight in the dark. Shiro has no doubt he can see him staring. They say nothing.

After another long bought of silence, Shiro watches Keith’s eyes drift close, the rise and fall of his chest evening out. Only then does Shiro close his eyes as well and let sleep take him.

**Author's Note:**

> More chapters will come eventually. I can't predict anything what with the state of the world, but I will do my best. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. You can find me on twitter [@maplmoosemuffin](https://twitter.com/maplmoosemuffin), and Nessie [@nessietime](https://twitter.com/nessietime).
> 
> Stay safe, y'all. <3


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